Phoenix
by Hedgi
Summary: He has made this choice before. Again, and again, and always he chooses the same thing, for the same reason. But he wishes-if only they had had more time. It doesn't matter. They're out of time, he's out of miracles, but he makes his choice again. Ronnie-centric companion to Daffodils


Phoenix

He has done this before. Staring up at the hole in the sky, his hand locked around Caitlin's, he knows what Martin is thinking. He knows what he has to do, the risk it carries. He's made this choice before. Twice, even.

It was Martin who had held the gun to their head, in the badlands, but he knows he would have done the same had he been the one in control. He could not let Caitlin die, or Clarissa, or anyone else, not if there was some way to stop it. Not if there was some way he could end it. He chose to run down into the Accelerator that night for her. For Caitlin and everyone else in that building, everyone else in that city. He remembers the fire that wasn't fire, the rush of pain followed by nothing, nothing, nothing until her face. He made that choice, and he'd make it again. So long as he has blood and breath and bone, he cannot let her die.

It almost seems like obligation, like—he can't let that sacrifice and the last months without Caitlin be in vain. If he was willing to die then to keep her safe, he has to be willing to keep the sacrifice going. In many ways, he thinks, as the lightning sparks above them, this is only a continuation of that choice.

There is no time to do more than nod at Martin's words, to look at Caitlin and wish he could look at her forever. But there's no time for promises, no time for any of it because Barry can't run forever.

At least, he reflects, he gets this moment of farewell. Martin won't even get that, and Ronnie knows how much he loves Clarissa. When they join, the love they each have for their wives merges and melds like a sunburst, too much to contain.

It's too much to hope, he thinks, drawing his hand away, that they'll all survive this. But he hopes Martin does, Martin who never made that choice all those months ago. And he hopes that Caitlin does, or what else is this for?

It's for the world, yes, but she's his world.

 _You can't, it's too dangerous,_ she says, begging him not to go and he wishes, for a moment, wishes he could stay, and hold her through the ending of the world. It's so soon, it wasn't enough. Trapped in his own body for months, his mind too fuzzy to do anything but think about her face and her curls and the smell of her shampoo and wanting to go home. He wants to go home with her, wants to go home to her, not fly up into that raging storm.

He remembers the last words he said to her the first time _, Cait I have to do this_ and doesn't say them, instead echoing Barry's courage— _I have to try._

He can't bear to add the unfinished and said again and again, _Caitlin no matter what happens- I love you_. It feels too much like finality, too much like forever and maybe, if he doesn't say it, he'll get the chance to.

So he pulls his hand away and nods to Martin, and they both Know.

Caitlin tries and fails to hold back the tears, and his heart, the double heart shared now with Stein, internally breaking twice over for their wives and all the things undone and unsaid, shatters. But there's no time to kiss her, run a thumb under her eyes, hold her.

He knows. He knows it's dangerous, that it's so dangerous and he's about tapped out of miracles, used them up one by one like flower petals on the wind. He made it home to her, before, when he should have been dead, twice over. Can there be one more miracle, just one, just a minute's worth?

It doesn't matter. He and Stein, FIRESTORM, they're the only ones. Barry can't do this alone, and if he doesn't do this, doesn't do this now, _Clarissa, Caitlin, we won't let them die._

He gave his life for them before, even if it's only now catching up to him. All this time's just been borrowed. He can't not do it again, not when this is the only way to keep them safe.

But God, it's all too soon, if only there was one more day, one more hour, one more minute.

One more minute. If he'd had one more minute in the accelerator, if they'd had one more minute of warning, might he have made it back? He'd never have blamed Cisco, he doesn't, not for the choice that he made, though he knows the kid blames himself (21 and so sure he'd killed his best friend.) But might he have? Would they have escaped from the rubble covered with nothing more than bruises and scrapes and gratitude, would he and Caitlin have gotten married in a rented church hall in January like they'd planned, parents looking on and beaming with pride? Would they maybe have—a family? By now?

There are so many things he wishes he knew, and there's no point in wishing for that extra minute because it's gone, it's over. And if any of the last hour has taught him anything, he knows that dreaming of changing the past—there's no telling what falls apart.

Would he have been there, had the power there, to save Barry from Dr. Wells at Christmas? And to help in the fight yesterday? What would have happened to Martin?

Everything, every choice, every action, every sacrifice, has brought them to this moment, with this power. If he'd had that minute then, who would close the portal?

But still, he aches, and he can feel Martin aching too.

They take off soaring, and there's no joy in it this time. The wind rushing past his ears sounds like the closing of the pipeline door and the crackle of a radio. There's the speed, and the flame, the sheer power of flight, but there's no glory in it, no splendor, no freedom.

There is only desperation, tamped down fear that there's no time to feel, love like the flames pouring from his-their- hands. He hopes they aren't too late, he hopes this will work, he hopes that all of this will be worth it.

And then everything is white and gold with fire, and he closes his eyes against the light, and the darkness, and the world. He can still feel Martin, slipping away, can still feel Caitlin's eyes on him. All of him is fire and flame and falling, but he can still feel her hand in his, a different kind of warm. And he knows, then, a certainty that takes root in his chest, a kind of peace. It worked. She is safe.

He would walk through fire to return to her, he has before, he will again. He will come home to her. No matter how long it takes, no matter how hard or impossible, he knows, he knows, he knows, like the song of a phoenix in flight.

He will always come home.

* * *

I'm so sorry. (no I'm not, cry with me)


End file.
